


The Deal

by restorick



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Angst and Humor, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-01
Updated: 2013-11-01
Packaged: 2017-12-31 04:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1027446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restorick/pseuds/restorick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in 1975. Another part of Bodie's back story and a take on how he came to CI5. Links with 'Prison Visit' and 'Reunion'.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deal

**Author's Note:**

> 'When you get into a tight place and everything goes against you until it seems that you cannot hold on for a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and time when the tide will turn. - Harriet Beecher Stowe, author of Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

Late 1975

Seedy backstreet boozer. This place embodied the phrase. ‘The Shilling’ was clearly named for its’ history, here in the dockland area of London. The newcomer from the rain had already taken that proverbial coin long ago, but smiled to himself that he might check the bottom of any tankard for the token of enlistment, just in case. He didn’t need double the trouble tonight. 

Not that the man wanted beer, either. A good red wine was his usual choice but first impressions of this pub led him to doubt that he’d find it here. From the doorway, the crowded interior allowed only a cursory scan of those packed within. Not recognising anyone, he entered and blended with the gently steaming throng. It was noisy with booze-induced banter and the juke box was continually fed. Good cover for him and those he expected.

 

A while later, one of them was edging through the far door. Dressed in jeans and a tattered field jacket, his short sandy coloured hair was darker and plastered to his head from the rain. He dripped his way into the pub, pushing through equally scruffy men in their work clothes, unconcerned about raising an objection from the owner of a spilled drink. The pusher waved a hand in apology but the complainant insisted that the man make amends and grabbed at his jacket. 

Benny Marsh turned in the confines of the crowd, raising a fist and a space immediately appeared around him. The man who had his sleeve dropped it without question, signalling his own apology with an open palm. Marsh turned back and continued on. As suddenly as the potential conflict had flared, all was peaceful again and the noise of conversation increased once more.

The watcher breathed out. If that had come to something the second man wouldn’t have shown. He surveyed Marsh with distaste. Ex army and active mercenary, the man had his contempt. Marsh was also dangerous and to be handled with caution. But for that reason only. Without hesitation the watcher would have made a covert snatch when the merc left the pub. Because tonight Marsh was setting up an illegal deal which would help perpetuate a bloody civil war in a once beautiful country. 

But foiling this export of arms would have been a drop in the ocean and Marsh was small change. There were more pressing matters tonight. The man both were waiting for was more significant.

When that man arrived soon after, the watcher could have missed him as he was virtually unrecognisable in his dress and carriage. He was in disguise, on the run and in need of cover. He was also, unfortunately, in need of Benny Marsh. The watcher bridled at the thought of it.

Bodie, hunched and clad in a long coat which seemed unusually dry for the weather, had obviously been staking out the pub from a covered viewpoint. He’d seen Marsh enter; had he also marked the watcher? Doubtful, as Bodie had come. Time would tell.

He worked his way through the crowd and asked the barman something. Bodie was shown the snug and nodded in understanding, moving back into the throng. The door to the private room opened and closed behind the black-clothed figure. Concerned, the watcher moved in to hear what he could of this meeting.

They weren’t long. Two pints were prepared and taken to the counter beyond the screen. On the near side, their brief conversation was overheard with difficulty. Then, at the sound of glasses being deposited onto the bar with finality, their hunter melted away again. Marsh and Bodie exited, apparently in chummy conversation. Under their breaths, the exchange was not what it seemed.

“Don’t you skip out on me this time, Bodie.” Marsh fetched into each of his pockets in turn. “’Cause if you do, you know what will happen.” He smoothed out some screwed up paper with emphasis then checked it for importance. “Betting slip. Would have done better running myself!” he grumbled and scribbled on the rear. Handing it to Bodie he warned, “Meet me here or I will find you and beat the rest of the dough out of you. I’ve a kid to support now!” 

“Doubt your missus will hold her breath, Benny...”

Marsh scowled but didn’t react. “Tomorrow at eleven, we buy in and Marty gets his consignment delivered.”

Bodie read the address; it was a flat in smart area. “Always thought Martell had style. Right, see you there.”

There was a handshake between the two, neither cursory nor sincere. It was a gesture denoting a business arrangement and a degree of understanding, bonding them until the job was completed. No more, no less. As they held each other’s eyes you could see the tension in it and the need too, if you knew what you were witnessing. 

The watcher admired Bodie’s resolve to work with this lowlife. As he left, Marsh had an air of swagger at a deal well done which lightened his load and lined his pockets. He also knew very well whom he’d just reached agreement with. He may be making threats to keep Bodie’s involvement, but the mercenary was still nervous.

 

Business over, Bodie moved directly for the other exit which led to a side alley. From there he’d reconnaissance once more before moving off. The thought of returning to the skanky B&B suddenly sat like a stone in the pit of his stomach and that weight hung in the wired frame of his body. He realised that he was hungry, despite the heaviness there and recalled that he hadn’t eaten properly today, or yesterday for that matter. 

Immediately his energy seemed to ebb, head swimming with the beer in his system. Now moving through the crowd felt like wading in the thick, clinging mud of a jungle. Better get used to that, hunger and much besides in place of civilisation. Life was taking another about turn and the clock winding back six years. Better get used to it mighty quick. 

“Stay and have a drink with me.” 

A hand was planted into the centre of Bodie’s chest, stopping him in his tracks. The firm unmoving palm reflected the direct statement. Neither was a request or an invitation. 

A figure stepped into his path. Bodie froze, staring. Then his eyes flicked left, right and over the speaker’s shoulder to the crowd beyond. There was no room to move, hemmed in as he was by a man of equal height, weight and skill, the bar on one side and the drinking masses around them. He could vault the bar he supposed, but had no idea of the escape route. He would have to fight his way out and anonymity would be gone.

“A lager, isn’t it.” Again, that commanding but subtle tone which was so familiar wasn’t asking, it was stating a fact. 

Bodie focused, his peripheral vision all the time looking for a gap, searching for a way out even though the eyes were fixed on the speaker’s. 

He must have moved minutely. “No, soldier.” The palm became a fist with a bunch of Bodie’s shirt front lightly gripped in it. “It’s just me. No need to run. You don’t think I’d have brought them with me.”

Bodie’s eyes skimmed what he could of the bar room. No one was looking their way; no one seemed to be closing in or was of the right build and posture to be military. But he’d just been sloppy, very sloppy. Around them, the bar hummed with the usual talk and somewhere over Bodie’s shoulder a music lover had put Rod Stewart on the juke box for the third time in a row.

“Here.”

Despite himself, Bodie looked down as a pint of lager replaced the fist. That too was pressed against his chest to claim his notice. He watched as another glass appeared with red wine in it. The pint pressed more firmly, demanding to be taken and Bodie did so, knowing that he would have without the prompt. Tension lessened, glass was touched against glass.

“Your health, Bodie.” The toaster drank and, satisfied that he’d got the other’s attention for at least the pint’s worth, sat down.

“Sir,” Bodie breathed and then took a long draught while he thought. He hadn’t long.

“Sit.”

The adjacent bar stool was pulled in front of his legs, an obstacle for Bodie if he tried otherwise. Crafty bastard. The internal alert subsided as he hauled one leg around the stool and dragged it underneath him. He edged into the bar, hooked his feet over a rung and dumped down the glass.

Captain Guy Statham of the Special Air Service breathed an inward sigh of relief. Manoeuvre completed without bloodshed or casualty; didn’t mean the campaign was going to be easy, though. He shifted on his own seat and faced Bodie again. The man was sideways on, glowering into his lager. 

Up close, Bodie was unusually dishevelled and unshaven for off duty. Part was disguise and part the reasons behind it. He also looked tired and drawn in a way that wasn’t to do with hard work or partying, both of which the man was capable of in abundance. ‘Haunted and hunted’ was what the officer would report to his own concerned wife the next day.

Statham cast briefly about them. Nobody was paying any notice. Better to be in the most public part of the bar, he’d thought. Wouldn’t necessarily stop Bodie kicking off but it might make for a more controllable exchange of views. He paid the man full attention again. “It’s alright. I really am alone,” he reassured.

“But you’ve come for me.”

“You are on compassionate, but you’re also technically absent without leave, Bodie. I did not give you leave to disappear and regulations say I must.”

“So I can, technically, disappear then?” Bodie slurped beer with the hint of a self satisfied smile.

Statham let out a snort. “If we’re going to bandy words outside of uniform, we’ll be here all night. Right now, even in civvies, I am still your commanding officer.” He sipped his wine, giving himself space to consider which way this was going to go. 

Bodie glanced across and then back at the bar top. Clever, crafty bastard! He found a beer mat to address in place of the officer. “Done with talking. Got me nowhere, so I’m making my point another way.”

“By deserting.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay. But I need to know why I’ll be completing a charge sheet. I’ve put a lot of work into you over the years; I think you owe me that.”

Bloody clever, crafty bastard! “Where do I start?” Bodie exhaled. “Put down that I don’t obey orders; that I’m insolent, insubordinate, risk-taking and renegade. That enough?”

“A fair range of your better qualities. What about the ‘bad’ ones?”

Facetious, bloody clever, crafty bastard! “You tell me,” Bodie shot defiantly.

“No. Your head’s big enough,” Statham shook his own. “Suffice to say that you are a good soldier.”

“And would one of those go AWOL?” 

“Alright. Let’s look at this another way. You’ve had a rough ride, lately. Doesn’t mean your career should end.”

Bodie was jiggling his legs, sipping at the pint pointedly and staring into the mirror behind the bar for ill-mannered effect.

The officer decided to push his luck. “Oh, drop the act, soldier! Face up to this and convince me why I should discharge you.”

The other carefully placed his glass down and inspected the fraying mat.

“Surely leaving legitimately is better than being on a charge?” his captain tried.

“Oh, so you want me to go, now?”

“Don’t play the fool with me. If you run, your supposed guilt will be all the more clear to them. Why bring defamation on yourself when it isn’t the truth?”

Bodie finally crumpled; Statham hated to see it but he had to get through to him. 

The cornered man sounded exasperated, reciting his point of view parrot fashion for the umpteenth time. “I’ve played the game. I’ve tried conforming - wife and...Well, that didn’t happen either, did it? None of it’s worked out. Being your regular army man, doing what’s expected. So I’m reverting to type. And you’ll be shot of me, messing up the regiment’s carefully crafted plans,” he sneered and dropped his head.

“Self-pity, Bodie? A hair shirt and flagellation from now on?”

“Ha, ha. Leave off the public school humour. Just tell it like it is, sir. We’ve always had a relationship of direct and stimulating repartee, don’t stop now.”

“Okay, sergeant. Both barrels. No, it hasn’t ‘worked out’. If you must use that phrase for, from what I could see, was a loving and caring relationship with a young woman who lit up your life.”

“Oh, spare me the violins!”

“No!” Statham slammed down a frustrated hand on the sticky bar top. “You asked me to be frank, so here it is.” He checked around them for eavesdroppers before continuing in the calm, considered manner that underpinned everything he did and said. And, to Statham’s surprise, they had a conversation of sorts. Bodie didn’t look at his captain for the most, alternately seeing off his pint and methodically shredding the beer mat, but he didn’t argue or walk away either.

“You have been slowly bereaved and your integrity swiftly questioned by the people who should be your bedrock,” Statham summarised. “You’ve tackled some hellish things in your time, Bodie. And I’m desperately sorry these two events are the worst and that they’ve come together. But you’re a survivor and a good soldier. You can get through this. We’ll help you.” 

“No. I did everything by the book. We had no idea about her uncle. Strike first, ask questions later - you use it on your own, as well as the enemy. You’re just a load of hypocrites! I want out. ”

“You must see how it looks. A special services soldier whose wife has IRA...”

“Had.” Bodie corrected stonily.

“To them, you still have IRA connections. I know you’re not culpable. But to our controllers, if you aren’t a traitor it’s too good an opportunity to miss. Get a man on the inside; let them think they have a stool pigeon.” 

“And you just let Nairn try it on me.”

“I was not, and never will be, party to any coercion of you by the regiment.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard it already.”

“Or ever entertained the slightest suspicion that you are capable of treachery. Believe what you will of me, I don’t mind. You have to believe in yourself, now.”

Bodie pulled himself up straight on the bar stool, rolling his shoulders back in lazily controlled precision. “Nothing else I do believe in. It’s all I’ve got.”

“Such bitter words. The regiment has given you so much and you’ve given us five years of your life in return. Good years, exemplary service. Well, apart from the odd exuberant spell. I didn’t take too kindly to being told what to do with that bodyguard job in the Far East. Where did you tell me to stick it?” 

“Can’t remember, exactly. Somewhere the sun doesn’t shine, I expect,” the man winced. “We both said our piece.”

“But you still went to do it. And we got through to each other eventually. Didn’t we?” 

“Yeah. But what’s the point? What’s it all for, if...if I’m back to square one, by myself.”

“You aren’t ‘by yourself’. Never are in our lot. It’s what we do.”

“Too right, I’m not! I tell you all where to bloody go, cover my retreat, find the most anonymous gaff that I can, and you still find me!”

“You’re well trained. I trained you well. To your credit, though, it’s taken me a few days.”

“Suppose you know what I’m doing here.” Bodie was nonchalantly twirling the pint glass, pretty sure this was the case.

“Yes. Marsh. Benjamin, known as Benny.”

“You’ve been watching.” Bodie finally looked sideways at the officer.

“I have connections, too. And I was also well trained. By an evil son-of-a-bitch named Jolley. Incredible irony in that name but, in his day, he made even Sgt. Law look like a pussycat.”

Bodie grinned in recognition of one soldier trying to best another; ‘my gun is bigger than your gun’, it was the equivalent of fishermen boasting, ‘it was this big.’ He opened his mouth to speak but the light-hearted moment was over.

“Going back to Africa, I assume? Word is that someone’s recruiting for the FNLA. Dirty deals and gun running, hiring out your services and trawling the depths of humanity. I suppose it’s the same as a hair shirt and scourge...”

Bodie switched too. “Back to basics, Guy. What I’m good at. Being a professional has been okay but I don’t fit in anymore. I’m embarrassing you and myself. Time to go back.” He faced away, pinching the dark hollows around his eyes, looking as if he could put his head down on the bar and sleep for a week.

“You’ll be killing yourself.” The speaker leant in for emphasis.

Statham’s succinct conclusion made Bodie start with its perceptiveness. He studied the pile of cardboard. This way of living had become too complicated. He wanted to stop caring about others, maybe that would include himself. 

The officer continued. “Maybe not directly. If you don’t disappear altogether, I’ll probably have to identify your body after a bar room brawl, or with knife wounds or mangled by a grenade. That’s how it will end and I wouldn’t let your father do it.” 

“It’s no different to the regiment. They’re both dirty and brutal and soulless. The jungle has slightly fewer rules and no uniform, is all.” Bodie shrugged and drained his glass.

“And is there honour among these thieves?” Statham questioned.

Bodie shot his captain a bitter look. “The regiment’s ‘honour’ isn’t exactly shining lately. Not with me. I trusted my armoury and my mates...and you. Now I’ll just stick with the Uzi. From where I stand, the SAS is no more protection than being a merc. Anyway, after this deal I plan on going it alone. Less collateral.”

“And that will protect others from harm?” 

Statham got no reply at all. He’d thought they were getting somewhere and tried to stir any kind of reaction. “None of us are immortal, Bodie,” he sighed. “Least of all we happy few who are supposedly on the right side. Don’t you think Claire understood that? How d’you think the wives and girlfriends get through the hours while we’re away, being heroes?”

“Heroes? You are joking! We just about hold it together most of the time!”

Statham’s voice was even softer. “Exactly. And our women hold the rest of us together. You know that. She lived for you. To see you go off in a fit state to do your dangerous job, knowing that she was happy. Then she was even happier when you returned in one piece. Even public school toffs like me aren’t completely immune to human frailty. It’s how Helen and I have made it this far. Don’t blame Claire or yourself, or anyone else, that she couldn’t live through something more destructive and determined than any enemy you’ve faced.”

Bodie seemed to be affected by this and thought outside himself for a moment. “You sound like...have you...?”

“My sister. Twin sister. The same way; and doctors think that young women aren’t susceptible...”

“Oh. I didn’t know.”

“No. Like you, I don’t wear my heart on my sleeve; can be a contradiction in our job. It still doesn’t stop me empathising. Oh, sorry. That too big a word for you, sergeant?”

“Shut up...sir. What’s that you’re drinking?”

“Burgundy. They seem to have something like it, here amongst the spit and sawdust.” Statham swirled the dregs in his glass, dubiously. “And if they deny it, I’ll have a scotch...double.” 

Bodie was sourly amused as he hailed the barmaid. Might as well humour the man who’d been more than a captain these last few months and say a proper farewell.

 

On being served, Bodie found that his companion had moved from the bar stool to a corner table. Typical security paranoia - secluded but with a good view of the access points. Bodie realised that he’d been slack since Guy appeared, not noting what he’d said or watching his back. No doubt Statham had been, though. The captain was that sort of man, could get your name and number out of you just through calm words. He was also a force to be reckoned with when he really got stuck in. This evening, though, he was still quietly looking after Bodie’s person just as a leader of men should. And he was trusting Bodie not to flee.

Feeling that warm wave of solidarity and comfort in his own kind made Bodie wish the last couple of months had been a dream and not reality. Momentarily, he wanted to go home. Anywhere the troop, his mates and Statham were had been home for five years. It was the longest he’d settled and the most he’d trusted anyone since his teens. It had felt good. With their support he could get over losing Claire. He would make that oft-derided fresh start and Guy would get the powers to see that Bodie couldn’t be turned into an IRA infiltrator. 

His captain would do that anyway, but the rest was just mad wishful thinking. As Bodie followed with their drinks, he knew with utter certainty that this life was unravelling fast and he couldn’t go back. He was still burning with anger at the regiment and he didn’t want his friends dragged into this mess. He was yet to grieve for the girl he’d loved; hadn’t even started on mourning his Mam and sorting out the distance from his old man. He’d got too dug-in and comfortable. Better to cut loose.

 

“Here, and don’t take offence.”

Bodie looked away from the envelope being pushed across the table. “I’m fine for cash. I have means.”

“And I know you better than to offer charity,” Guy countered. “Just look inside.”

The envelope contained a train ticket. Bodie barely looked, not wanting to take ownership of Statham’s proposition. Alongside, was a piece of folded paper. He closed the envelope, tucking the flap in carefully.

Statham anticipated a smart comment. “Those aren’t directions to the railway station. I’m asking you to come back so we can sort this out. This is no way to end your career. It’ll only be another stick for them to beat you with.”

“I can outrun the MPs if you give me a head start.” Bodie pushed the offering back.

“For God’s sake! I wasn’t just in town to find your sorry backside, soldier!” Guy lowered his voice again. “I have some news for you. Yesterday I met with the controller of a government law enforcement unit that was set up a while ago. CI5.”

Bodie just shrugged and swilled a mouthful of whisky. 

“He’s a well respected and solid ex army major - Far East, Germany, Spain. And latterly MI5. Name of Cowley. CI5’s still small and select but he’s always on the look out for service personnel with specialist skills. And you don’t apply, he finds you.”

Bodie choked on the scotch. Guy was thinking of jumping ship, too! He swallowed, wiping his mouth, and then gaped in genuine surprise.

The man’s expression made Statham laugh. “Oh, you know me better than that! Not me. I was invited to give my assessment of a certain SAS sergeant who Cowley’s heard about. The damn fool seems to fancy having an ex mercenary lowlife, turned Para, on his squad. Even though this Para probably landed on his head one too many times!”

“Guy, if this is your idea of getting me to stay, it’s not gonna work.” Bodie was still defiant across the table.

“No, didn’t expect that it would. But it gives you an alternative. Cowley’s asking for you, though God only knows why. Your appointment is tomorrow at ten thirty; the address is inside.” Statham half stood and stuffed the envelope into Bodie’s top pocket before he could argue. “Report to George Cowley’s office and see what he thinks of you. More importantly, what you think of this department that you haven’t bothered to read dispatches about.” He sat and warmed the tumbler of malt between his hands.

“‘Department’? Doesn’t sound like a whole lot of fun.”

“Oh, he can’t promise it’ll be as sure fire a thing as Angola, Bodie. But if you’re looking to escape from me and still bust some heads open, it should be right up your street. They have an open remit to combat criminal and terrorist acts and Cowley makes any rules CI5 does have. Home grown rules and no uniform, it’s what you want isn’t it?”

Bodie inclined his head, not a shrug this time but he wasn’t giving anything away.

Statham was used to this non verbal truculence. Bodie tended to go off piste if he wasn’t reined in, but that creativity could be a plus in CI5. Bodie was also unswervingly loyal and focused when he did commit. Cowley could have the best of both sides of this man, if only the man would try. 

“I’m told that, if Cowley thinks you’ll do, he’ll call again when they’re ready to test another intake. If you get through that, you’d be his man and not mine. Can’t say I’d be sorry with all the trouble you’ve given me.” 

Bodie smiled wanly at the backhanded compliment. “I’ll think about it.”

“Don’t insult me with platitudes. You’ll do more than that, you’ll bloody well go! Get some sleep, a shower and shave, and dress like a human being again. Meet Cowley tomorrow and then you need to follow me, or the red caps will be off the leash. If you come back, I will be responsible for you; you can stay with us again until Cowley’s decided. I’ll keep Nairn off your back, but I will not go down for you!” Statham smacked that emphatic palm on the table top again.

Bodie tried facing the other man off but they knew each other too well. He broke first. “I won’t endanger you. You and Helen have already done enough for me. I want to thank you for that, sir.” Bodie got slowly to his feet, but offered his hand sincerely. 

Statham raised his brows in question. What did this mean, a deal or goodbye? He rose and took the proffered hand. “Thirty six hours. Then I expect to find your bag in my guest room and you eating a meal at my table. Helen’s expecting you and your hollow legs. Is that understood, sergeant?”

They dropped the handshake, Bodie thin-lipped as his facetious, bloody clever, crafty bastard of a captain tacitly gave him leave to make that choice. 

 

\--oo0oo--

 

Captain Guy Statham strolled into the tastefully furnished lobby of The Special Forces Club in Knightsbridge, thinking of his evening. 

Bodie was so damn hard to read at times and Statham still had no idea if the man would stay or leave. But in their night of drinking and talking, he’d seen that his sergeant was intrigued by the CI5 pitch. And, even if his face and attitude had turned to stone, much of the Bodie he knew was still in there. 

If he wanted risk and action to blot out his memories, Statham was convinced this different kind of unit would deliver it in spades and on home ground. However, Bodie being Bodie, he was just as likely to leave for Africa tonight, to spite any expectation that either of them had.

The officer was already resigned to losing this soldier from his troop. Bodie was a good special operative but his life at that moment was more complicated than their controllers wanted to manage. Unless he danced to their tune. And there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell that Sergeant WAP Bodie would do that! Statham would have kept Bodie on come hell or high water but conceded, now he’d seen him again, that his sergeant’s heart wasn’t in serving for them anymore. 

It was probably best that Bodie did leave, Statham recognised; better for everyone. But he was determined not to let the man so easily ruin his life because of things that weren’t of his doing. He’d done his best. He was probably the only one now who could have told those truths. 

Strawbridge had already tried a week ago. The last person to see Bodie before he disappeared, Andy had voiced his concerns during the funeral saying, ‘He looks half dead, himself.’ Bodie left midway through the wake with Strawbridge in stubborn pursuit and the next time Sergeant Strawbridge was seen he had a large swelling on his left side jaw. 

If the man’s best friend hadn’t got through Bodie’s armour then Statham hadn’t rated his own chances very highly. Bodie had listened tonight, although he was more than likely only paying lip service. Wondering if the envelope had been thrown away yet, the officer rang the reception desk bell.

“Good evening, sir. Thought I hadn’t seen you go up.” 

“Evening, Fisk. No, been out. And I’ll be leaving too early for breakfast. Thought I’d let you know and thank you for your usual service.”

“You’re always very welcome here, Captain Statham. Which train are you taking?” The night porter fetched Statham’s room key.

“The six fifteen, Liverpool Street.”

“In that case, I’m sure I can get Roberts to rustle you up something for the journey. Never know what the railway serves up these days. Cab for five forty five alright, sir?”

Statham thanked Fisk and took his key. He had a few hours to get some shut eye before the journey back north. There was a one way ticket for the same trip in the envelope he’d given Bodie. As he climbed the red carpeted staircase Statham wasn’t sure if it would be used, but at least he’d tried. 

 

\--oo0oo--

 

Next morning Bodie packed his bag, but for where, for what? He was tired. More tired than he even dared to admit to himself. But if he let go now what would happen? Would it all come flooding out or would the dam he’d put on his inner self, hold? He didn’t know if he wanted to find out. 

He had only one hour to either get to his rendezvous with Benny or go to the address that his captain had given him. It had all been so clear yesterday, but now he had a choice before him. Damn bloody Statham! He’d have cursed him more if he didn’t respect the officer so much.

As he stepped into that London morning, he was still undecided. Walking to the main road Bodie hailed a taxi, opened the door and threw his kit bag in ahead of him. Once settled, he dithered. He didn’t owe this Cowley anything but he did owe Statham the courtesy of turning up, at least. His captain had gone to some lengths for him over these last few months. Did that matter to Bodie anymore or were the illicit deal he had entered and the money riding on it, more important? 

“Where to, mate?” 

Bodie leaned towards the gap in the cab’s screen and passed through a piece of paper. “Here. Quick as you like, before I change my mind.”

The cab driver took it with curiosity. Punters usually knew where they wanted to go or asked his advice on a pub or restaurant. This one appeared, to a seasoned reader of human kind, to be totally sorted in the directional sense. A piece of paper was unusual from a non tourist. It was as if his fare was reluctant to go and wanted the cabbie to make the decision by reading it, rather than saying the destination himself. “Sorry, guv. What’s this say?”

Guy Statham’s handwriting, Bodie appreciated, was copperplate and more classic than most were used to. “Whitehall,” he explained. “Somewhere off Whitehall. Drop me near Horse Guards and I’ll find it from there.”


End file.
